"Thwack!"
The sword came down once more, stronger, deeper, and Ren felt a slight jerk in his wrist, a dull ache spreading down his arm like a warning from his exhausted body, as if it was trying to tell him.
'You need to rest!'
'Don't waste time.'
The voice of reason almost took complete control of his body.
But he didn't listen. He couldn't listen.
Each strike now was no longer just a routine act of practice, it had become one with his bones and muscles.
They were the crystallization of all the emotions he had kept bottled up, each piece of anger, disappointment, and the fear that had built into a storm within him, channeled into every cut, as if it wanted to tear apart the veil of silence that hung over the world around him.
No words could express that, only the blade's edge could.
Each step, each hoarse, tired breath of Ren flowed with the rhythm of the sword, his body moving, twisting, shifting according to an instinct honed to perfection.
'I'm still missing something.'
'Not enough.'
The soles of his shoes scraped across the dry ground with a steady hiss, blending with the sound of the sword slicing through the air.
Ren no longer thought about his stance, no longer weighed each movement, whether it was right or wrong, because at this point, thinking was a luxury.
His body knew what it had to do, like an old, worn-out machine but determined, operating on nothing but trust and familiarity.
But what he was reaching for wasn't in technique. It was elsewhere, deep within his consciousness, at the delicate boundary between emotion and reason, where if he strayed even a little, he would forever lose himself.
There was no sound of a notification. No pale blue light signaling skill progression. No numbers appeared to reassure him.
Only the heavy breathing, the long steps across the ground, and the sound of Black Fang cutting through the air in the night, decisive, cold, like a solitary response sent into the void.
His body and mind were out of sync.
Ren felt it more clearly than ever before, not as a sudden revelation, but as a silent truth that had been creeping in for a long time, only now fully revealing itself.
As if two parts of him were living to different beats, only slightly out of sync, but enough to create a distance.
A cold, unfamiliar distance, making every movement, no matter how precise, feel off.
His body continued to swing the sword, spin, thrust. Every movement was technically correct, at the right speed, as if engraved into his joints and muscles.
But his mind drifted. Lost. Like an observer standing from afar, watching his body act on instinct, unable to intervene.
'What's happening to me?'
'Why is everything becoming so detached like this?'
'My body is fighting… but my mind is on the sidelines.'
It felt meaningless to the point of madness.
There were moments when Ren knew exactly what the next strike should be.
He saw the path of the sword, imagined the angle of his wrist, the slide of his shoes on the ground, but when he executed it, it didn't match.
It was like there was a thin sheet of glass separating thought from action. He could see it clearly, yet couldn't touch it.
And it was this misalignment… that made him angry.
Not angry at the world. Not angry at the things the world threw at him.
But angry at himself.
'This body is mine… so why does it feel like it's not listening?'
'My hands shake when my heart wants to be strong, so in the end, what do I really want?'
'Why does every strike feel technically perfect, with the power… but still feel hollow?'
Ren gripped the sword tighter, a mix of frustration and fear bubbling inside him. Not fear of failure.
But the fear that… he might never feel "real" again.
He didn't lack experience, didn't lack reasons to fight, didn't lack the theory to fix every little mistake. But what he needed… was something different.
Something alive. Something real. A spark of connection, between the strike and his will, between every step and what he truly believed in.
A feeling... when did he forget something?
Since he left Klein's group? Since he had to choose alone? Or perhaps... before even stepping into this world, he had already stopped believing in his own rhythm?
Now, everything was just pure motion, efficient but soulless.
Like swordplay in a faint dream, where every action was correct... but there was nothing to believe in.
A closed loop. No beginning, no end. No way out.
Ren clenched his teeth. The knuckles of his hand whitened around the hilt of Black Fang, as if holding tighter could bring his body and mind back together.
He stared at the wooden post before him, no longer just a training target, but a symbol.
A silent wall, holding all the limits he had yet to surpass.
If his mind no longer believed, then what was his body fighting for?
If his hands held the sword but didn't know what they were protecting, was this still a fight? Or just a rehearsal? An endless performance?
Ren didn't know. He had no answers. And perhaps, no one would give him the answer.
But despite everything…
Under the dim light, amid the thick air of sweat and dust…
Ren still swung the sword.
The people he had met… both players and NPCs who transcended reality.
The things he had gone through in the short journey of being trapped in Aincrad… all of them flashed before him with each strike.
Gareth, with eyes that seemed to see through his soul, silently standing like a solid rock.
The old blacksmith, full of life experience, living his whole life with hammer and anvil, deep in his old eyes were the lessons of the past.
Yuna, carrying her silent fear but still stepping forward, her legs trembling.
Nautilus, who spoke little but never took his eyes off his comrades, ready to charge into danger just to grab a hand.
And Klein, along with those who had left, leaving a gap within him that no words could fill.
They… had changed him.
They made him realize he was no longer the same person, no longer the cowardly and weak one who lived as if tomorrow didn't exist.
They gave him emotions he had never known: trust, helplessness, warmth, and even hope.
They had their own reasons to continue fighting, things they cherished to protect, dreams to pursue, and they kept moving forward.
And then, as if a small crack echoed through the quiet, heavy stillness. A sound so faint, yet it spread far.
The body and mind, once separate… began to reconnect.
A step, the heel turning at the right point.
A swing of the sword, the shoulders relaxing at just the right time.
Every movement, every breath... seemed to find its point of contact.
No more disorder, no more deviation.
No more feeling like standing outside of oneself.
But a seamless moment.
A slash cutting through the heavy fog, reaching something deeper within, something nameless, but real.
Not perfect.
Not strong.
Just... real.
Ren froze, breathing heavily.
Sweat trickled down his cheek, but his eyes were wide open, sparkling as if he had just seen a distant, tiny light, enough to make him keep going.
Maybe... I haven't completely lost that feeling.
The feeling of being alive. Of fighting for something that doesn't belong solely to me.
He didn't say it out loud.
He simply raised his sword.
And continued.
A gentle breeze swept through, shaking the magic lights hanging around the training ground, making the light flicker as if about to go out.
It reflected on Ren's sweaty face, on his tired eyes, eyes that had seen so much but still couldn't close.
Ren didn't often look at his face in mirrors, but if he truly looked at himself…
Just a few short days, but so much had happened, something had been lost, and with that absence, something else had been added.
In those eyes, between the night and the weariness, there still flickered something, not a fierce flame, but glowing embers, smoldering, refusing to be extinguished no matter how strong the wind.
And that, exactly, was the only thing Ren had left until this moment.
He turned, shifting his weight to his supporting leg, then suddenly accelerated, a horizontal slash cutting through the wind, striking the wooden post, leaving a new, deep cut, the bark splitting open as if about to break.
Without stopping, Ren continued to glide to the right, the tip of his sword thrusting straight forward like an arrow through the darkness, then withdrew, spinning in the opposite direction, attacking again from the left, all of it happening in a continuous, fluid motion, resilient, without unnecessary movement, without a single pause.
Then, a strong gust of wind surged, carrying dust and the faint smell of burning wood from past impacts. Ren paused for a beat.
He didn't move, just stood there, his body slightly leaning forward, the sword still in his hand, his breath coming in shallow gasps, but his eyes wide open, staring at the post as if looking through it, into something intangible on the other side.
And in that moment, like a lightning bolt cutting through heavy clouds, Ren felt something.
Not clear, not explosive, just a small change so subtle that others might never notice. But for him, it was enough to make his heart skip a beat.
A seamless feeling.
For the first time in days of drowning in repetition and despair, each turn, each strike, each movement that had seemed disconnected suddenly came together, like the final pieces of a puzzle being placed in their proper spots.
No more entanglement, no more hesitation. Just coherence, between body and sword, between thought and action, between the person and their will.
Ren exhaled, no longer a breath of fatigue, but a light, deep sigh, as if he had just shrugged off an invisible burden that had been weighing on him for so long.
Inside his chest, something warmed, not sure if it was from sweat, a racing heartbeat, or… faith. A small, fragile faith, but enough to take one more step forward.